Chapter 8

The fluorescent lights buzzed above casting a sterile glow on the steel table. Director Stone, a stoic figure draped in shadow, leaned back in his chair. His gaze was a physical weight pressing down on me. Agent Moreau report. I took a deep breath, the metallic tang of fear clinging to my tongue.

Director of the Cape Town operation. My words caught in my throat. The images flashing behind my eyelids. The crumbling ruins, the guttural growls, the blood. So much blood.

Continue, agent. His eyes, 2 chips of obsidian held a chilling glint. I had faced down monsters, stared into the abyss but nothing compared to the scrutiny of director stone. He knew, he always knew. The mission was compromised from the start, I said, my voice a strained whisper.

The intel was incomplete. We were walking into a trap, and we didn't even know it. The target, subject 13, was far more volatile than anticipated. His unpredictability made him a living nightmare. We had been sent in blind, a team of 4 against an unknown entity.

The memories flooded back, each one more haunting than the last. We were outmatched, outgunned, and out of time. The oppressive humidity of the African night clung to us like a second skin. Every breath was a struggle. Every step a battle against the elements.

The stench of decay and ancient evil clinging to the air was almost unbearable. It was as if the jungle itself was warning us to turn back. The crumbling temple swallowed by jungle, whispering secrets in a language lost to time. It was a place of power and of death. Your team, report their status.

I closed my eyes, the faces of my team flashing before me. Petrov, the stoic Russian. His strength eclipsed only by his loyalty. He was our rock, unyielding and dependable. Jackson, the tech whiz, his fingers dancing across keyboards, weaving magic with code, gone, both of them.

Their loss was a wound that would never heal, a reminder of the price we paid. Petrov and Jackson didn't make it, I choked out, the words tasting like ash. The weight of their loss hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the dangers we faced daily. Petrov, crushed beneath a collapsing stone archway, a hero's sacrifice. He had always been the first to rush into danger, never hesitating to put others before himself.

His bravery was unmatched, and his loss felt like a gaping wound in our ranks. Jackson dragged screaming into the darkness by unseen hands, his pleas echoing in the night. The memory of his final moments haunted us, a chilling reminder of the unseen horrors lurking in the shadows. And the new recruits, how are they holding up? Stone pressed, his gaze unwavering.

He was a seasoned veteran, his eyes reflecting the countless battles he had fought. His presence was a source of strength for the new recruits. Then the rookie thrust into a nightmare, his eyes wide with terror yet resolute. Despite his fear, there was a determination in him, a spark that hinted at his potential to become a great asset. And Maya, the linguist, Her calm demeanor a facade for the fear that flickered in her eyes.

She was brilliant. Her knowledge invaluable, but the horrors she had witnessed had left their mark. They had been collateral damage, pulled into our world of shadows and secrets. Each of them carried the weight of their experiences, the burden of knowledge that could never be unseen. They survived, I said, the word heavy with unspoken truths.

Survival in our world was a double edged sword, a testament to their resilience, but also a reminder of the scars they bore. They had resilience, but also a reminder of the scars they bore. They had survived, yes, but at what cost? The price of survival was steep, often leaving them questioning their own sanity and the choices they had made. The darkness had a way of leaving its mark, staining the soul, whispering nightmares in the dead of night.

It was a constant battle to keep the shadows at bay, to hold on to the light amidst the encroaching darkness. You disobeyed a direct order, agent Moreau. Extraction of subject 13 was not authorized. I met his gaze, a flicker of defiance sparking in my chest. He was the key director to everything.

The cryptic message left behind by Cynthia, the whispered warnings, the growing certainty that we were on the precipice of something far greater, far more terrifying than we could have imagined. Subject 13. He was different, powerful, ancient. His eyes, when they met mine, held not the mindless rage of the creatures we hunted, but a cold, calculating intelligence, an intelligence that sent shivers down my spine. His true nature remains classified.

Your unauthorized actions have potentially nsi alu, I pressed, ignoring Stone's warning. The symbols, the artifacts, the creatures themselves, it all points to them. The whispers of a forgotten civilization, masters of genetic manipulation, architects of life itself, their legacy buried beneath layers of myth and legend was resurfacing and with it, a darkness we were ill equipped to face. The nsi alu are a myth. Stone's voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

A fairy tale to scare children. They're real, I insisted. The certainty burning in my gut. And they are connected to subject 13. He's not just some experiment gone wrong.

He's something more, something ancient, something powerful. Stone remained silent. His gaze fixed on me. A storm brewing behind his obsidian eyes. Frustration coiled in my gut, a bitter taste rising in my throat.

It was a feeling I had grown all too familiar with, a constant companion in this shadowy world of secrets and lies. Why all the secrecy, director? I demanded, my voice rising. The room seemed to close in around me, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down. Why was the information about the NCALU withheld?

This wasn't just about protocol. It was about something deeper, something more sinister. Why are we kept in the dark? The questions tumbled out, each one more urgent than the last. We deserved answers, not more layers of obfuscation.

Stone silence was deafening. His eyes, cold and unyielding, offered no solace, no hint of the truth that lay just beyond our grasp. It was the same wall of silence that sin always erected. A barrier of classified files and redacted reports. Each redaction was a slap in the face.

A reminder of our powerlessness. They claimed it was to protect us, but the truth was far more insidious. Knowledge was power and sin hoarded it like a miser clutching their gold. The more they kept from us, the more control they had. And sin hoarded it like a miser clutching their gold.

Every piece of information was a treasure, locked away from those who needed it most. We're not privy to that information, Agent Moreau, Stone finally said, his voice a low growl. His words were a cold dismissal, a reminder of the hierarchy that kept us in our place. Our duty is to follow orders, not to question them. The mantra of the obedient, the creed of those who had surrendered their curiosity for the sake of duty.

And what about the truth? I shot back, my anger bubbling over. The truth was a casualty in this war of shadows, sacrificed for the illusion of control. What about the lives at stake? Petrov, Jacks, and countless others sacrificed on the altar of sin, says secrets.

Their faces haunted me, a constant reminder of the cost of our ignorance. We couldn't keep living in the dark. The veil of secrecy had to be lifted for the sake of those who had fallen and for those who still fought in the shadows. Stone's eyes narrowed. The covenant, he said, the word heavy with disgust.

They are a cancer, a blight upon this world. The covenant, a fanatical group obsessed with harnessing the power of the nc Alu, twisting their knowledge for their own twisted ends. They were the reason sin, existed. A shadowy organization created to combat the threats hidden from the public eye. But what if sin wasn't so different from the very organization it sought to destroy?

Both shrouded in secrecy, both obsessed with power, both willing to sacrifice anything, anyone to achieve their goals. The thought sent a chill down my spine. A memory flashed before my eyes. They're not what they seem Cleo. Sin.

They're hiding something. Cynthia. My friend, my confidant, my informant within the labyrinthine corridors of sin. She had risked everything to warn me, to expose the truth, and she had paid the ultimate price. Her death was unfortunate, a tragic accident.

But I didn't believe in accidents anymore. Not in our line of work. Cynthia's words echoed in my mind. They're connected Cleo, subject 13, and you. The connection between us was undeniable.

The way subject 13 reacted to my presence, the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the strange pull I felt towards him, a mixture of fear and something else, something akin to kinship. And then there were the nightmares. Vivid terrifying dreams of ancient cities and monstrous creatures, of whispered prophecies and blood soaked rituals, dreams that felt all too real, dreams that hinted at a past life, a destiny intertwined with the nci alu with subject 13. We have ways of dealing with rogue agents, agent the rogue. You can silence me director, I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart, but you can't silence the truth.

I stood up, my gaze unwavering. I'm done being a pawn in your game. You have no idea what you're dealing with agent Moreau. This goes deeper than you can possibly imagine. Then it's time I learned the truth, I said, my voice firm.

I owed it to Petrov, to Jackson, to Cynthia. I owed it to myself. I walked away from the debriefing room. The weight of stone's gaze heavy on my back. I knew then that my journey had just begun.

The lines between friend and foe, truth and deception were blurring. Sin was not what it seemed. Subject 13 was not what I thought. And I, Cleo Moro, was caught in a web of secrets. A game played for centuries with stakes higher than I could have ever imagined.

As I stepped out into the night, the city lights blurring in the rain, my phone vibrated, a single message from an unknown number. They're watching you, Cleo. Trust no one. The game was afoot.